Uneven the Elements: The Pokémon Wars
by Barristan Plato
Summary: An idea I had of medieval style Pokémon users and the effect they could've impacted upon history. Its my interpretation of this past and to shed light the history of modern Pokémon customs. Of course this is my detailed look at this history I've created.


**Prologue****: ****Cinder Hope.**

The night was dark though the Candles always shone at night. Bertrand was young but a fierce trainer and practiced daily with his noble Pokémon. Though his father was a loving one he knew his boy would come to an age of fighting the Kingdom of Niel was never to remain in a ceasefire he said. "Nobles of the Candles fight until fire turns to wax" He'd say, and Bertrand Pyrewood would never assume the gravity of those words. Locked in thought, he stared out a window into the cold air, alight with lanterns that made The Candles famous. He was unprepared for his future fighting in a war that was never going to happen but he was eager; not stupid but brave. It was in his blood the Pyrewood's were fighters, noble ones at that and It was his time to shine the brightest. He heard echoed steps from the halls outside his door. He ignored them and was lost in thought, a time to show what both he and his Pokémon could do. A knock broke his thought and the door whispered open, wailing an amplified creak in the candlelit stone.

"You should rest my boy, you are to train tomorrow with the Black Flames tomorrow, you're to be one of them you know" hollowed Mandrus Pyrewood with an authoritative love in the quiet night searing through the halls of Ashenford Castle. Bertrand, without turning spoke with a grin and willingness in his tongue "When will it be my turn to light the sky with ash?" Mandrus looked down on the black stone. When he spoke it was soft as if to comfort his son "The night will never leave you my boy, you have blood of the sun in your veins. Please I beg you not to spill it, we let fire take our souls, not the land. There WILL be a time, I promise you this, I see the wicks burning thin you must become a man, a knight and take what is ours." With that Mandrus sat on his son's cotton bed and stared at Bertrand till he turned to face him. His father's eyes a dark brown, black haired and bearded cover in a bright red garment, one side with silk stitched golden flames caressing the deep red loosely over dark leather pants, tipped by matching boots with skulls of the God of Flames. The lord of the sun. The Phoenix of the rainbow. The Sacred Fire.

Bertrand looked into his father's eyes and confidently reassured "I will become a Black Flame, father. I will fight our enemies and scatter their ashes to the wind. Only fire can conquer." Mandrus laughed a hearty laugh and told his son "I know, a different time will come for you. Come now sleep before the lanterns die." With that Mandrus stepped up and headed for the door but before he left Bertrand began jolting some words for him "Do you really think we'll war again, father?" this time the confidence gone and only the innocence of a growing boy with ambition exceeding him. The words his father spoke stuck to the brunt of his skull "There will always be war my son." And with that his father stepped out and the door clattered shut.

Bertrand looked back to the window and stared at the lanterns lighting up the Candles from the castle down to the harbour. _My honour is mine to win_ the boy thought expecting the sun would rise soon and at noon he had training with the elite of his house guards of all people. His biggest hope for war was to see more places, as beautiful and sacred the Candles were to him there was a kingdom to explore to the north of that another kingdom to fight. He had heard tales of war brewing closer to home. On the Fire Council he'd heard his father and older brother, Lucin Pyrewood talking to the nobles about an uprising from Seraphpool, a land on the edge of the Candles where their Lord swore his oath the attacks were organised by The Thessal Isles. But lord Pyrewood proclaimed it as preposterous but nonetheless gave 50 men to Lord Aluin Searfin. It made Bertrand wonder if there was truth in the wily Lord's words, he had no reason to lie to his father.

The Thessal Isles weren't all that far from home at all, to think that they would causes a war did sound implausible but seemed stupid if war was all that blatant to see. The Knife's End was only about 40 miles from Seraphpool and an attack while outrageous could kill men. Not just men, women, children, everything. These were Bertrand's men as much as they was his fathers. He couldn't let the _Merfolk _tarnish the grace of those with fire hearts. He was fired up and wanted to unleash his fury before he could even say they'd played a hand in this, though he never did like the ocean bearers. The Phoenicia always was secluded and away from the inland politics. Bertrand knew they hate the land dwellers, envious of our parts to play. If the snobs of the sea were to tread on the candles, he took upon himself to make sure they'd been thrown back in and boiled for their crimes. He was beginning to feel himself hate, that primitive hate of an adolescent, and realized he must calm his thoughts and sleep, _its father who gets to act after all _was his final thought before letting his head hit his pillow and realizing just how tired he was, although that thought was succeeded by an echoing thought: "_There will always be war…" _

"_There will always be war…"_

"_There will always be war…"_


End file.
